Nepenthe
by The Bad Kitty
Summary: The comic tragedy or tragic comedy of...


I remember my mother, her stern severe face, her long crooked fingers flexing wildly as she spoke of how wizards and muggles co-existed back home; how there was none of this secrecy, none of this hiding; how our kind were revered as saints and sometimes as gods; how completely inferior and inelegant she considered the latin-structured spells to be with their foolish wand waving and gestures. She preferred the traditional methods of focusing magic: Scrawled pieces of paper, wards drawn with elegantly formed symbols, complex finger forms combined with a low mumbling chant.  
  
I used to stare in awe and in fear as I watched her performing spells. They were long, drawn out ceremonies of fire and shadow and a low incessant speech that was indecipherable to a child of five. A few times the spells took hours to cast, and never had any visible effect except for a slight feeling in the back of my brain that SOMETHING, imperceptible as it may, had changed. Never would she stoop to using "their" magic, and never would she use magic frivolously. "Magic was a privilege", she would lecture me, "not some toy to be played with and abused." My mother would say all this while cooking our food the muggle way: hands stirring and frying assortments of meats and vegetables as expertly as casting a summoning charm. We practically lived like muggles, and I remember being quite envious of my friends who never had to lift a finger with chores, who never had to learn some complex outdated system of magic that was more trouble to cast than it was useful, who never had their mother yell at them when they didn't receive top marks in schooling. I think at that point I hated my mother, trapped in her traditions and customs. I only excelled at my studies out of spite, proof that the "company I kept" wasn't a bad influence on me.  
  
And so it was my surprise when my mother agreed (only after much rebelling, whining, and screaming) to my acceptance in Hogwarts School of Witch-craft and Wizardry when I turned eleven.  
  
I never questioned her change of heart regarding magic, nor my good luck. I was ecstatic to finally be owning a wand, to get away from the overpowering sense of tradition, away from dead rituals ruled by dead men. Mother however, refusing to have any part in what she considered inferior magic, allowed me to pick up my schoolthings by myself at the mature age of eleven. "If you're too stupid to get simple school supplies, you don't deserve to go!" She shrieked in her wild nagging voice. I was only too happy to comply.  
  
Diagon Alley, was the most marvelous place in the world. Although my childhood friends had raved about their trips here, nothing could have prepared me for the sheer abundance of magic and oddities. I wanted to see, hear, breathe, and taste it all. The hustling and bustling of foraging witches mingled with the hunting wizards out for the perfect business opportunity. I noticed other children being dragged by their parents had the same awestruck look that I myself must have been sporting.  
  
The first place I visited, of course, was the bookstore. If Diagon alley was impressive, to the intellectual mind, Flourish and Blotts must have been paradise. Piles and piles of books, tomes, and scrolls were crammed into every conceivable corner. And I found the strangest urge to giggle like a jubilant schoolgirl. Sighing and knowing that I neither had the money nor the time, I pulled out my school booklist and asked the wizard attendant for my first book, The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1. I did the math and discovered that I would have a few Galleons left over from my book purchases to warrant a small indulgence. Mousing over to the used book section, I fished out a battered copy of Hogwarts, A History (2nd edition) and an old even more worn out book that simply had "wind" on the front spine. Flipping through, I could barely understand a fourth of what was illegibly scribbled in an old flowing handwriting, combined with the fact that it was written back to front causing me to turn the pages right to left instead of the usual way. Thoroughly intrigued I paid for my books and left to pick up the rest of my supplies.  
  
After leaving Madam Malkin's (custom tailor cut robes, of course, who says one can't be smart and fashionable at the same time) I had only my wand to buy. Except for the little splurge on the books and robes, I had only bought what I needed and stuck to the supplies list. Thus I had exactly 7 Galleons left to my name, just enough for a wand.   
  
A wand. Hah. If only mother and her incense and talismans and symbols could see me now. If there was one thing I would never give up it would have to be my wand. It would become important to me and I would spend an abnormal amount of time polishing it to perfection and stowing it where I was sure it would not be damaged.  
  
Ollivanders, though highly recomended, turned out to be a narrow tabernacle that looked like it was going to collapse if given a hard enough push. I entered the shop, letting the door chime sing a faint opera that I paused to hear for a second. In front of me was an elderly man with large, piercing grey eyes. He surveyed me for the tiniest of seconds before dashing of to the rear of the shop, returning with an armful of rectangular boxes. He spoke as he sifted through them, "Well now, dearly, I certainly wasn't expecting you here. Quite a stubborn woman, your mother, 12 inches maple, sturdy. Absolutely refused to use the darn thing. And it was from such a lovely unicorn." He had a much smaller stack now, which he placed in front of him. "Ahh, there we are. I carry three types of magical cores: phoenix feathers, unicorn tails, and dragon heartstrings. If I'm not mistaken, you'd be a unicorn. Now, which is your wand hand?" I told him I was left handed.  
  
What followed was a bizarre experience of wand waving and of having Mr. Ollivander mutter about wand sizes. The wand waving continued until the stack of unicorn core wands had been depleted. "Curious. But, that's not the first time I've been wrong, rare as it occurs." Mr. Ollivander then stared into my eyes and it felt as if he was digging into my soul and I wanted him to stop and I wanted to scream and cry and punch old Mr. ollivander in the face and I wanted to fly with the wind underneath me lifting up my body as it coiled in the air, the sun a mere grape which I could grasp in my claws. And then he turned away rummaging in the back once more and I was back in the dingy little shop. "Here you are, deary. Seven inches, willow with a dragon's heartstring. I've had this one for ages. Didn't seem to want to choose a wizard till now."  
  
I held the wand, small and lightweight, and nothing happened. All that and nothing. Disappointment and frustration echoed throughout my body. Suddenly there was a light breeze and I turned towards the firmly shut door perplexed. The moldy smell which had once pervaded the shop had now disappeared to replace by what seemed to be a fresh clear mountain scent. The breeze was now a wind which swept my hair out, then a gust which fluttered my clothes, then a gale which stung my face, then quiet once again. The shop was untouched, the moldy smell back, and Mr. Ollivander had a smug self-satisfied look on his face. I slammed the 7 Galleons on the counter, bid a hasty good-day and left the shop and a bowing Ollivander at a full sprint.  
  
It was not until I was wheezing and panting from the lack of oxygen that I stopped running. I forced myself to calm down. Fear was the enemy of the rational mind, and what was I afraid of? Of old Ollivander, harmless and frail? Or the strange breeze. 'Calm down', I told myself, 'I wager this is quite a common occurrence.' I looked at the time and noted how I still had a few hours before I had to go (the raised sundial gave the correct time, despite the fact that the sun was in the same direction as the shadow).   
  
As I had depleted all my Galleons, and I knew mother was to stingy too allow frivolous spending, I decided to window shop a bit. Quality Quidditch Supplies were showing an advertisement for a new line of brooms, the Nimbus series. I stood with all the other drooling and gawking children marveling at what would never possibly be mine. I had only been on a broomstick a few times, as my friends would let me use theirs in those nostalgic sepia coloured memories, but still managed to develop a love of Quidditch.  
  
Taking one last longing look at the proto-type Nimbus, I proceeded towards the Magical animals and familiars shop. Though Hogwarts did specify that we would be allowed to keep an animal, since it was optional, I definitely wouldn't be allowed to have one. I spent the rest of the time I had left playing with a magnificent snowy white owl, letting it nip my fingers a bit while I fed it until the owner kicked me out (not so politely asking "can I help you" three times).  
  
Sundown, and as the final embers burned away the tops of the buildings, I retrieved an old antique watch from my pocket, its face cracked, its hands unmoving. I grasped the portkey tightly and felt that familiar lurch in the stomach. The pleasant scenery of the dusk of Diagon Alley was replaced by the reproachful gaze of my mother. I paid my respects, thankful for no further arguments, and went to bed. It would be the longest month of my life.  
  
I counted the days till September 1st with increasing urgency, trying my best to avoid my Mother, who seemed to be in a perpetual fit. By this time I had much practice simply ignoring her wild ramblings and disapprovals. The thought as to why exactly she allowed me to attend crossed my mind a few times, but I never dwelled on it. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I happily prepared for the start of the term by reading Hogwarts, a history and skiming the chapters of the other books. From the looks of the lessons, First Year would be ridiculously easy. Despite being forbidden to practice most magic, Mother had instilled in me knowledge of rudimentary magical theory and practice.   
  
Magic was chaos, unformed and ever changing. It pervades our entire body from the moment we are conceived. It is a life essence, undetectable by muggles. There are places and locations of high-magic concentration, Hogwarts being one of the largest, where it is easier to use and to feel. What a wizard or witch does is channel that energy through a focus - more commonly a wand and an incantation. The focus brings order to the chaos, shaping it into the desired effect. Anything could be a focus, though some work better than others. Emotions themselves are a focus, as magic has a large dependency on the state of mind of the castor. Extreme emotion however is magic almost at its rawest - the results were uncontrollable, though certainly powerful. The necessary emotion to channel magic without the use of foci was enormous and draining on the individual, thus while structured wandless magic was certainly possible, it was incredibly improbable.  
  
What mother hated about wands and the weakness in organization, constantly yelling of the flimsy formation and structure that occurs by trying to channel magic through a flick of a wand and one simple word. It was as she called, "magic for fools and beginners."   
  
Then as if time itself sense my frustration and anxiety, I suddenly found myself waiting on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. What appeared to be a steam powered locomotive, red and dazzling in the station, was awaiting me. My bags already stowed in the compartment, I was bidding my mother a final goodbye. I shouldn't have bothered.  
  
She told me in more or less words, to not come back if I managed to fail my classes. I suppose our parting could have gone better, as our farewell turned into an incredible row with much yelling. I humphed, crossed my arms and stared defiantly at her, never realizing that the our eyes mimicked each other.  
  
The train ride was entirely uneventful. I sat down with some nameless girls whose excited chatter was a small distraction from the furious thoughts still on my mind. The girls were pretty enough and introduced themselves to me, though I never bothered remembering their names.   
  
The train rumbled to a stop and we were ushered out by a giant of a man shouting "Firs' Years! Firs' Years" I wondered at his shaggy appearance whether he had been on the receiving end of an engorgement charm when he was a child. Certainly no normal person was born that way. The man's imposing appearance did nothing to quench the already frightened First Years. I forced myself to calm down and rationalize that Hogwarts would do nothing to place us in any harm. The man, introducing himself as Rebeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys was leading us down to a still, stagnant lake where a dozen or so boats were resting against the pebble shore. The great castle of Hogwarts shone silhouetted against the full moon (odd, I could have sworn it was a newmoon tonight). It was ominous and wonderful and awe-inspiring; a sentinel on top of it's throne of crags and rocks.   
  
My erstwhile travel companions from the train ride (what were their bloody names again?) remained with me as we entered the small dingy. As we neared the castle I could feel the slight shifting of magic around us. Any full-fledged wizard or witch would have been able to sense the spells forming and shifting around them, but I very much doubt a boatful of green First Years could. Untrained and not having enough knowledge all I could do was sense the magic forming around us, surrounding us into the familiar structure of a protection spell, but unlike anything I had ever seen. This was old magic, ancient and powerful. Layers upon layers of magic were coalescing around us, who were mostly unknowing and ignorant. For once, I thanked my mother for those odd obscure lessons in vague magical theory. This was a right-of-passage protection charm, a hard-to-penetrate defense that only could be cast as a person entered a dwelling. As much as it could insure the complete safety of the guest, the right-of-passage binding charm could insure complete safety from the guest. However my abilities at identifying magic structure were limited, and I could not identify the multitude of protection spells placed on us. The shifting magic befuddled my sense and I found myself dizzy and nauseated from the attempt. The rest of the boat ride had me hunched up in my seat trying to keep my lunch down until we landed on the beach.  
  
We were met by a severe looking woman, who looked like she had kept her hair in that tight bun for her entire life. If Rubeus Hagrid was intimidating, Minerva McGonnagol was down right scary. Her rectangular glasses, straight tight-lipped mouth and severe expression gave no room for horseplaying. She explained the sorting of Houses for the courtesy of all the Muggle-borns, but I already knew about them and droned out McGonnagol's commanding voice. I wondered which house I would be placed in.  
  
The wide double doors in front of us opened with great flourish as we were ushered into the Great Hall. McGonnogal, carrying a stool and the dirtiest most weather-beaten hat I have ever seen led us into the hall where we were examined like lab specimens by the multitude of students in black robes and black hats. Although intimidated by the attention I forced down a blush and remained calm. Everyone's attention then turned towards the old wizard hat now sitting on the stool, which I was very much thankful for but still rather confused.  
  
I suppose I should have expected a talking hat, but it still caught me by surprise. The hat then proceeded to sing, extolling its own virtues as well as the virtues of the four Houses. After the hat's number, I clapped politely, but was thinking how humans couldn't possible be pigeon-holed with only those four characteristics in mind: Bravery, determination, intelligence, cunning. It seemed a completely illogical manner of sorting who goes where. Brave people are not necessarily good people, and those of intelligence won't necessarily get along. But given that reason was almost completely absent in the world of magic, I was shooting for Gryffindor, though Ravenclaw didn't seem so bad.  
  
My thoughts were distracted by the whimpering and squealing of a young red headed girl, straight damp hair reaching to her lower back. I didn't know what she was afraid of as the sorting seemed relatively harmless; stick an old musty hat on your head and wait for it to assign you a house. Just to give her some reassurance I looked up at her blue eyes (I was the shortest of them) and gave what I hoped was my best and kindest smile. I think it worked because she gave a ghost of a smile back.  
  
Hearing my name called for what was possibly the tenth time, I hurriedly rushed to the front, quickly sat down and jammed the moldy old thing on my head. It was a disturbing experience, having someone know everything about you, even if it was a hat. I was unpleasantly reminded of Mr. Ollivander.  
  
"Well what do we have here? Hmmm, you're somewhat of a rarity. I'm talking about your mindset, of course. Not the usual way of viewing things. You'd do well in any of the houses, infact. You adapt quickly enough to the situation. You have ambition enough, that could grow to achieve surprising results. Bravery - a bit subdued, but it's there. Oh you're going to need that trait, deary. Hardworking, I can see that. But oh that mind, that brilliant mind. Mustn't let that one go to waste or Rowena will never forgive me. Yes, I suppose that'll do. Don't go looking for trouble and trouble won't be looking for you. I hope you enjoy your time in - RAVENCLAW!"  
  
I made my way to the clapping and hooting table and sat down to look at the range of expressions from exited, to bored, to subdued, to feigned interest. The red-headed girl I smiled at was up and she too was sorted into Ravenclaw. She bounded up to me (I couldn't help but picture a joyful puppy wagging its tale), and smiled shyly at me. I smiled back.  
  
"Hullo", she said and slowly she cupped my cheek with her hand brought her face down to mine and kissed me. I had my mouth slightly ajar, as I was preparing to return her greeting, however the set of lips covering them made that action, including screaming out in embarrassment, slightly difficult. The kiss lasted barely a millisecond, but it was enough to completely shut down my mind.  
  
"Marietta Edgecombe, how do you do?", she said in a now not-so-shy voice, as if she had done nothing out of the ordinary. I was genuinely proud of myself that day, as I did not over-react, faint, or break down in anyway. After what seemed like a week, but really was only a few seconds I manage to force out weakly:  
  
"Err...Cho Chang."  
  
My first kiss was wet and salty.  
  
Bad Kitty productions presents:  
  
Nepenthe  
  
The comic tragedy  
  
or tragic comedy  
  
of Cho Chang  
  
Author's Notes/Disclaimer:  
  
Not mine.  
  
Yes, this fic is about and stars Cho Chang. Yes, I know that some people hate her. Unfortunately, I don't. This fanfiction will attempt (but will most likely ultimately fail) to do what J.K.R. is attempting to do: chronicle the (mis)adventures through seven years of Hogwarts school of withcraft and wizardry. Yes, some action will coincide with the Harry Potter books and I will make Cho react and respond to widespread affects that Harry and Co. will produce with their actions. However, since Cho is a year ahead of Harry any meaningful interaction will not occur until Cho's 4th year, Harry's 3rd, set in the Prisoner of Azkaban novel. As I am treating each year as a a novel, it may take awhile before my Cho interacts with Harry. I will try to make the situations end up as cananocal as possible, but since J.K. never goes too much in depth into Cho, I have taken liberty to change mindset and unmentioned personal history.  
  
I'm not a Harry/Cho shipper, though I wouldn't mind them together, even for a bit. What I am setting out to do is NOT to stick them into a relationship, but to make Cho her own character, unshadowed by the situation and celebrity of Harry Potter.  
  
I'm basing my thoery on a few flights of fancy and an example in Order of the Pheonix, where Hermione is struck by a spell in the department of mysteries. J.K. Rowling says that if the incantation to the spell had been uttered, the damage would have been more severe.   
  
Also when Harry casts Crucio on Bella Lestrange, it is weak and does not cause the amount of pain it should. This is because the focus for that particular spell is sadism, or pleasure from causing pain.  
  
I will spend much of the story in intellectual details about the nature of magic in this world. Half of it WILL sound like a thesis paper. That's simply the tone I wanted for the fic. Fair Warning.  
  
- Bad Kitty 


End file.
